


Do all spy names start with the letter J?

by bluecurls



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Clint Barton-centric, Darcy likes Clint, F/M, Fluff and Smut, lots of feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:27:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6311458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluecurls/pseuds/bluecurls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I thought you only drank martinis. That’s James Bond’s drink of choice, right?”</p><p>Clint Barton wasn't looking to get picked up in the New Mexico bar. Lucky for him, Darcy Lewis doesn't care.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Do all spy names start with the letter J?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm struggling with the final chapters of Forget Me Not. While working, a conversation about movie spies kept running through my head and it sounded like something Darcy would say to Clint, hence this one shot that got a little deeper than it set out to be.

“I thought you only drank martinis.”

Clint glanced over at the woman who had settled herself on the bar stool next to his, her blue eyes dancing as they focused on the beer bottle dangling loosely in his hands before darting back at him.

“I’m sorry?” he asked because if that was a line – Considering they were drinking in a bar in the middle of nowhere New Mexico, what else could it be? – he was not drunk enough to appreciate it, though if she kept licking her lips like that, he might reconsider.

“Martinis. That’s James Bond’s drink of choice, right?” She snapped her fingers to get the bartender’s attention. The way the man looked away from the television screen to give her the universal “In a second” head nod made it obvious they knew each other. The drink he set in front of her – whiskey and Cherry Coke Clint guessed by the scent, though the toothpick holding two Maraschino cherries was a strong clue – confirmed it. “Shaken, not stirred and all that jazz.”

Clint swallowed the rest of his beer, nodding thanks to the second the bartender placed on the cardboard coaster on the scarred bar top. “Why James Bond?”

She dunked the cherries in her drink before plucking one off the toothpick and popping it into her mouth. “He’s a spy, you’re a spy,” she said as if it were obvious.

He twisted in his chair so he was facing her. “Why would you think I’m a spy?”

She took a sip of her drink. “Hmm …” Her eyes slowly trailed over Clint as she took in his worn jeans, brown work boots, faded Army green T-shirt and flannel shirt that did not come out of a L.L. Bean catalogue. She paused for a second on his arms, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his elbows, before meeting his eyes. “Any other night I’d say lucky guess, but considering the shitstorm that went down two days ago, we both know I’m lying.”

Clint made a point to look around the bar. It was crowded for a Monday night. Then again, it was the only bar left standing after the metal robot from Asgard set nearly every other establishment on fire. “I look like every person in this place.” It was his turn to look at her, to let his eyes rake over her body, taking in the skintight jeans, long-sleeved white T-shirt over a plain white tank top and chunky brown boots. “You, on the other hand …”

She snorted into her drink. “Yeah, I’m the height of fashion. Stop changing the subject, James.”

“My name’s not James.”

“Oh?” She turned in her chair, a considering look on her face. “I suppose you are a bit too ‘country’ for M16.” She tapped a fingernail against her lips. Clint noticed her nail polish matched her lipstick perfectly. Both were red. Deep, deep red. “Jason Bourne, then?” She nodded as soon as she said it. “He was pretty broody, too.”

“Why would you think I’m a spy?” Clint repeated.

“Changing the subject again?” She shook her head, pursing her lips as she made a tsk-tsk sound. “Bad form, Jason.”

Clint finished the rest of his beer. He fished his wallet out of his back pocket, pulling out enough bills to cover his beers and her drink. “Have a good night,” he told her, placing the money on the bar. He turned to leave, but her hand on his arm stopped him.

“Small town,” she said with a smile, though it was more self-deprecating than the previous ones she’d bestowed on him. “I’d notice anyone new, though the rush of men in black sweeping in to do their ‘Stand back, nothing to see here’ thing gives credence to my spy theory.”

“I’m not a spy.”

“You’re not a local.” She squeezed his arm lightly before letting go.

He considered staying as she leaned back, elbows resting against the bar. Her shirt pulled across her chest. It took every inch of training to keep his eyes locked on hers. “Good night Miss Lewis.” He turned away before her mouth dropped open in surprise, but saw it reflected in the bar’s glass doors as he pushed his way into the cool desert air. If he fell asleep with less than honorable thoughts of what she could do with that mouth, so what? He was still a man even if these days he felt more like a machine.

* * *

“Jack Ryan.”

Clint finished his shot, the eight ball sinking into the pocket as he stood up, his focus not on the man telling him good game, but the woman in a black-and-white striped T-shirt dress and jean jacket. Her brown waves were pulled away from her face in a low ponytail. The simple hairstyle should have made her look younger. Clint was trying to figure out why it didn’t when his mind snapped back to what she’d said. “Were you even alive when _The_ _Hunt for Red October_ was released?”

Now it was her turn to look confused. “Huh?”

“Jack Ryan. Alec Baldwin played him in the movie.”

“Um, no; Chris Pine did.”

Clint closed his eyes, suppressing a groan. God, he was old.

She started laughing. “I’m just joking with you, Jack! I’ve seen all the movies. Baldwin is definitely a better Ryan, but no one tops Harrison Ford.” Her eyes glazed over. “Mmm … that man was dreamy.”

“Was?”

She shrugged and picked up a cue stick. “Was. Is. Forever will be. Take your pick.” She nodded at the waitress who set a couple drinks on the round table next to Clint. “Beer’s from me, since you got the last round,” she said as she started to rack the balls. “You strike me as a stand-up guy, Jack. Ladies first?”

“Jack Ryan is CIA.”

She hummed, picking up the small cube of pool chalk.

“I’m not CIA.”

“Too bad,” she said as she leaned over the table, her dress dipping low enough to show just enough creamy white skin to make a man’s fingers itch to see more. Clint forced the image aside, focusing on the balls scattered across the table instead. She didn’t sink one. “I like the name Jack. Hey, have you noticed how many spies have names that start with the letter J? Joe Turner. John Mason. Agent J.”

Clint’s brow furrowed. “Agent J?”

“ _Men In Black_ ,” she clarified. “Actually, that one makes the most sense for you; aliens and all.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Do you own a mind wipey thingy? Oh my god, have we had this conversation before?!”

Clint shook his head as she giggled into her drink, sinking two stripes. He circled the table, calculating his next move.

“Bert Macklin?”

He told himself it was the shock of her voice so close to him that made him miss. He turned. When did she sneak up behind him? No one snuck up behind him. “I’m not FBI.”

She bounced on the heels of her feet – heels that were encased in gray Converse sneakers. “You have no idea how happy I am that you get that reference! I love Jane, but her lack of pop culture knowledge is deplorable. I’ve been spitting out gems all summer with no one to appreciate them! Thank God for Tumblr, right?” She lined up her shot, grimacing when the ball banked off the side of the table instead of sinking into the pocket. “Damn,” she muttered.

Clint ducked his head to hide his smirk as she stepped away. It took no time for him to clear the table of all stripes before he set to work on solids.

“Sniper?” Clint fumbled, the white ball rolling across the table without hitting anything. “Oh, too bad. My turn!” She nudged him aside with her hip. He sauntered to their table, lifted the beer to his lips and watched as she pocketed the final three solids before calling out “Corner left pocket!” and sinking the eight ball. She tossed the cue stick on the table with a flourish. “I win! Next round’s on you.” She grabbed Clint by the front of his gray Henley shirt and tugged him to the bar.

“I sank more balls than you,” he countered as she waved for the bartender’s attention.

“I got the eight ball,” she countered. “That’s what you get for showing off.”

He bought her next drink because yeah, maybe he was showing off a little -- not because he wanted her to stay or anything. He wasn’t in the mood for company, didn’t feel like playing nice when he was away from the eyes on base. He told himself he followed her to the secluded table away from the crowd watching a baseball game on the big screen television and the smattering of couples slow dancing to the tinny music coming from the jukebox because he didn’t like the way men were looking at her legs. SHIELD cared about Jane Foster. She was connected to Jane Foster. One drink. He’d have one drink with Darcy Lewis, encourage her to go home and then do the same.

“So Bert –“

“Clint.”

“What?”

“My name,” he told her. “It’s Clint. Barton.”

“Clint.” She let her eyes roam over his face slowly as she repeated his name, somehow making it sound better than it ever had before. “Doesn’t start with a J, but it suits you.” She knocked her glass against his beer. “Nice to meet you, Secret Agent Clint Barton.”

“It’s just agent, Miss Lewis. No secret.”

“Ah ha!” she laughed. “I knew you were a spy!”

* * *

“I’m not cut out to be a boyfriend.”

The bed dipped as Darcy (he’d stopped calling her ‘Miss Lewis’ after their third encounter at the bar, though she liked it when he whispered it in her ear when he was balls deep inside her) sat, pulling the sheet over her bare legs. She handed him the bowl of popcorn. “I’m sorry. Does ‘I’m going to get us a snack’ mean something different to you?”

He pushed himself up on his elbows, scooting until his back rested against the wall of Darcy’s tiny studio apartment. Her full-size bed took up most of the cramped space, but she told him it was a million times better than sharing the RV with Jane. “I mean it,” he said as she stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth, chasing it with a gulp of cherry Kool-Aid from the cracked plastic pitcher balancing on the lawn chair that doubled as a nightstand. “My job, what I do, is not conducive to long-lasting relationships.”

“Dude, have I asked you to go steady? Do you see ‘Darcy + Clint’ scribbled in my lab notes? Do you even own a letterman’s jacket for me to steal?” Her lips were turned up as she leaned forward and kissed him. She tasted like the salt she’d liberally sprinkled on the popcorn. “Relax, Secret Agent Man; I’m not looking for happily ever after, OK? I know I’m as much of a distraction for you as you are for me.” She kissed him again, whimpering as he slid a hand around her neck, underneath her dark curls, deepening what she would have kept light. His other hand snaked under the soft cotton of her T-shirt; his T-shirt, actually. She'd pulled it on after getting out of bed. He wondered if it'd smell like her when he took it back. 

Yeah, Darcy Lewis was a distraction. A gorgeous, snarky and mischievous distraction who managed to get under his skin faster and deeper than any woman had before. Clint told himself it was because he was tired and cynical, still trying to come to terms with that last op. Anyone as disenchanted with the ways of the world as him would cling to someone as fun and impetuous as Darcy.

_“If you tell me she makes you feel young again ...”_

_Clint rolled his eyes, Natasha’s dry delivery coming over loud and clear over his SHIELD-issued laptop. “Since when is my love life so fascinating to you?”_

_“First you need a love life. Then I’ll determine whether or not it’s fascinating.”_

_“I’m not a monk,” he grumbled under his breath._

_“You haven’t pursued anyone since your last relationship.”_

_He snorted. “Is that what we’re calling it?”_

_Natasha acknowledged his comment with a slight tilt of her head. It had been stupid to think that their work relationship could transition to a romantic one as well. Luckily, they’d ended things before they got too messy, their professional partnership flourishing despite the train wreck that was their affair._

_“Just be careful,” Natasha cautioned._

_“I always am.”_

* * *

He stopped by the lab on his way to the airport, leaving the SUV running as he walked into the abandoned dealership. His eyes immediately went to the brunette humming under her breath as she clicked away on a laptop, oblivious to the other scientists working in the cramped space.

“Darcy.”

She smiled, her lips curving in a way that made her entire face light up. He’d spent weeks classifying Darcy’s smiles, from feigned interest (she used that one whenever Jane’s science talk went over her head, which Darcy admitted was often) to faked politeness (that was Agent Coulson’s). This one was real and all his. “Hey Secret Agent Man,” she leaned back in her chair, her hands twisting her hair into a loose knot on top of her head. She secured it with the pencil she had tucked behind her ear. “What brings you to our humble abode?”

He glanced around the room. No one was paying attention to them, their focus on charts and graphs and weird lines on screens he couldn’t bother pretending to understand. “Can you come outside?” He took her hand before she answered, pulling her with him until they reached the SUV. He opened the passenger door and helped Darcy inside before he circled the hood and entered through the driver’s side.

“Oh my god, air conditioning!” Darcy readjusted the vents until the air was blowing directly on her. “Why haven't we had sex in this thing?”

He really did not need that image in his head. “Coulson frowns on it.”

“Hmpf. Seems to me a screw in the backseat is just what Super-Secret Agent needs.”

“Why does Coulson get to be Super-Secret Agent?”

She abandoned the cool air to lean across the seat and plant a kiss on his cheek. “Aw, baby; you’re more than Super to me.”

He gripped her arms, pulling her closer until she was practically in his lap. One hand cradled her head, bringing her down so he could attack her lips in a kiss that lacked his usual style. He knew how to seduce. He’d studied it, trained in it and had used that knowledge to get information when necessary. This kiss was rough, bordering on awkward, as teeth clashed and hands faltered.

“Hey,” she broke away, panting as he trailed his way down her jaw to mouth at her neck, his tongue tracing the faint bruise his teeth had left on her collarbone a few days before. She’d smacked the back of his head when she noticed it, then pushed him against the bathroom door to suck on his skin until they matched. “I’m all for a quickie in the middle of the day, but the middle of the street?”

He forgot. He never forgot. He was always aware of his surroundings. “Sorry,” he buried his face in her neck and breathed the scent of coffee and dry erase markers. It shouldn’t be sexy, but it was.

“Clint,” she shifted, her legs moving to bracket his thighs. She framed her face with her hands. “What’s wrong?”

This was wrong. All of it. She was a 24-year-old college student with a mother who mailed her chocolate chip cookies every week and a dad who bought her a Taser because he didn’t think pepper spray was enough for his little girl. She was going to go back to school, graduate and take over the world “... in a completely altruistic fashion. Yeah, evil pays better, but I’d hate for you to have to take me down.” She had no place with him, a 37-year-old runaway circus act who joined the Army for three square meals a day.

“I’m leaving.” It came out harsher than he’d planned. He knew this would happen. She did, too. They had agreed when it did, they'd go their separate ways; no harm, no foul – though Darcy had threatened to “taze his fine ass” if he skipped town without telling her.

“Oh.” She climbed off him, moving to her side of the SUV. “Now, I take it?”

“Yeah.”

She nodded, suddenly interested with the frayed pieces of her cut-off jean shorts. “Are you coming back?”

“No.” The file Coulson gave him was thin, meaning he’d learn more once he got there. He had no idea how long the op would last. Maybe he would be sent back to Foster’s lab after it was over, but why get Darcy’s hopes up for nothing? Besides, she’d be back at school soon, hopefully with diploma in hand by the end of December.

“I’m guessing if I asked you to keep in touch, the chances of you actually doing that …”

“Touch and go, depending on the assignment.”

She brought her head up. She was smiling. It was her I-know-you-know-I’m-lying-but-please-don’t-say-anything-and-let-me-have-this smile. “Well, hey; we knew this day would come right?”

“Darcy, I –“

“Dude. Don’t, OK? We both knew what this was.” She scooted forward and pressed her forehead against his. “I never thought I’d say something topped meeting an alien prince, but you did, Secret Agent Man." She planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "Try not to get dead, OK?”

He chuckled. “SHIELD motto right there, babe.”

* * *

The window broke on impact and his body hit the office ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Shards of glass cut into his exposed skin, from shoulder to wrist. He could hear the others on comms, their words breaking through the fog of pain. He rolled to his front, groaning with the effort. He couldn’t rest. He had to get up. They had to stop it. They would stop it. They’d stop the invasion, capture Loki and then he’d drink until he blacked out, drowning away the guilt at his involvement, the pain of Coulson’s death.

“Hawkeye!” Captain America’s voice was strong, showing no signs of fatigue.

“Are you well?” Thor boomed.

“Yeah.” He ignored the glass littering the carpet and pushed himself to a standing position. Darcy once told him scars were sexy. She’d said that as they spent an afternoon in her bed, Darcy tracing every mark on his body with her hands, then her tongue. She didn’t ask where the marks came from or how old they were. He doubted she could tell the difference between a scar caused by a knife or a bullet, and one left by his father’s belt. Instead, he let himself enjoy her thoroughness. “I’m on my way.”

* * *

He thought about her. Not all the time. When he was working, his focus was work. He completed his missions. He was more focused than he’d ever been. He listened to his superiors and followed their orders without question. It didn’t erase the blood on his record or stop the whispers that followed him when he walked through headquarters. Their murmurs sounded like screams in his head. He'd led Loki to the helicarrier. He was responsible for Coulson’s death. It didn’t matter that SHIELD had cleared him of any wrongdoing, that the team of shrinks they brought in to examine his head and question his sanity found him healthy, or that Fury himself backed him. Clint knew what he did. He had to live with it. He let Natasha glare at the gossips; he didn’t care. Anything they said was better than what he called himself.

He wondered what Darcy would say. Did she even know? He checked on her a couple times. He knew she never returned to Culver, instead finishing her final classes online as she followed Jane around the world. Somehow she even managed to secure her own intern, though that shouldn't surprise him. He hoped she was happy. Natasha suggested he visit her, that he take the leave Hill forced on him and go to London.

“Surprise her,” Natasha said.

“And what?” He laughed bitterly. “Tell her I’m taking a sabbatical because I killed my handler, how about a cup of tea?”

“Loki killed Coulson.”

“I helped.”

She kicked him in the head. “Jesus, Tasha.” He pushed himself off the mat. “You can lay off the whole cognitive rehabilitation, alright?”

He didn’t go to London. He went to his farm, a little piece of land he bought after a year with SHIELD, when it suddenly hit him that his life had stability. Yeah, he was still moving from place to place, wherever the mission took him, but he had a steady paycheck, health insurance – and a few people he’d call friends. That was more than he ever thought possible.

It was Coulson who suggested he plant roots. Clint had laughed. This was a man married to SHIELD. It was his wife, mistress and lover. Coulson had waited for Clint to finish, never losing that stoic expression that hid how dangerous he truly was.

_“A man needs a place to call his own.”_

Clint knew nothing about farming. He knew nothing about owning a house, yet when he stumbled across the dilapidated farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest town, he bought it. He spent one night camped out on the scarred wood floor of the living room, watching shadows dance across the ceiling, then promptly forgot about it until he was forced to leave headquarters.

He threw himself into home repairs with the same enthusiasm Natasha said he threw himself off buildings. (“Ha, ha,” he replied, glad they were speaking on the phone and not through Skype because he had tumbled off the roof that afternoon and was sporting a bandage above his right eye.) He replaced the rotted wood on the front porch, ripped wallpaper from off walls, pulled carpet from the floors, and patched the roof. He spent three days watching HGTV before driving to the nearest town for paint, a sander and a miniature cactus he figured that had the best chance of surviving in his absence.

He worked until he was exhausted, often collapsing on the new but still bare mattress in the master bedroom fully clothed. It was then he thought of Darcy. Her smile. Her laughter. The way she felt underneath him. The way she looked above him. He’d fall asleep remembering what it was like to have her legs wrapped around his waist, her voice raspy as she begged him to go harder, faster. He wondered what she’d think about the house. He caught himself talking to her as he painted walls. Her replies in his head drowned out the quiet.

* * *

He watched the information stream across the screen. SHIELD was gone. Destroyed by Captain America. Files were dumped onto the Internet. Names. Faces. Missions. He slammed the lid down on the laptop. He didn’t have long. He was three months into an op, buried so deep not even Natasha could contact him. He didn’t know how long he had before his cover was blown. He grabbed what was necessary, stuffing it in his go bag. He strapped knives to his body, tucked guns inside holsters. He hoisted his archery bag over one shoulder, his duffle on the other and crawled out the window. He’d make his escape on the roof. He saw better from far away. He had a few hideaways off of SHIELD’s radar, a few bank accounts and safe deposit boxes that couldn’t be traced to the organization, Agent Clint Barton or any of the aliases now on the Internet. He’d get to one, grab the cash and make his way to the next. He’d find a computer, a public domain and get a message to Natasha. He knew she was OK. He never entertained the thought that she wasn’t. This had her fingerprints all over it.

* * *

“I don’t want to live with Tony.”

Natasha lifted an eyebrow as she expertly weaved through Lower Manhattan traffic on a Friday afternoon. “Steve thinks its best that the team stays together for now." She pulled into the underground parking of the phallic-shaped tower that once boasted Stark’s name, but now had a giant A for Avengers. After years of hiding in the shadows, living so open was an adjustment.

Clint tried not to think of the farm, his sanctuary from the world. “And you agree with him?”

She parked the car. “I trust him.”

He got out of the car and grabbed his things from the trunk, following Natasha to the elevator. He leaned against the wall, ignoring the computerized voice welcoming them to the tower as the events of the last 72 hours caught up to him. Exhausted didn’t begin to describe how he felt. All he wanted was a hot shower, something to eat and 12 hours in a bed.

“You made it!” Tony announced as the elevator stopped on what Stark called the Family Floor. “Come on out, my little assassins, and meet everyone!”

“We already know everyone,” Clint grumbled. Tony was difficult to take on the best of the best of days.

“You haven’t met Pepper,” Tony corrected, sliding an arm around the willowy redhead dressed in a crisp light blue business suit and four-inch Jimmy Choos.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” Pepper walked forward, shaking Clint’s hand before hugging Natasha. “I told Tony we could do this another time, but he insisted. Just be grateful that I talked him out of the party.”

“Steve got out of the hospital!” Tony argued, following Pepper as she led them away from the elevator to the sounds of conversation. “It’s un-American not to celebrate something like that!”

Natasha rolled her eyes at Clint. Shaking his head, he left his bags by the elevator. He didn’t plan to socialize long. He figured the sooner he said hi to everyone, the sooner he could leave. If Tasha thought it best to stick with the team for the time-being, he would, but that didn’t mean he’d spend every moment with them.

The scent hit him as he walked into the living room. He nodded at Steve sitting on one of the couches surrounding a low coffee table as he inhaled the aroma of spices, his stomach growling in appreciation. “Please tell me there’s food.”

“Not just food; homemade,” Steve corrected as he got up. His face was a mess of faded bruises and barely-there cuts, but he was smiling as he shook Clint’s hand. “Tony wanted to call out, but Thor’s friend loves to cook and is apparently thrilled to live here rent-free, so we’re getting a meal out of it.”

“I still don’t get why I have to share,” Tony complained as he walked with Steve and Clint to the dining room. “It’s my tower. I’m the one putting up with all of you. I should be the one getting all the food.”

“Tony, don’t make me program JARVIS to play _The Sharing Song_ again!”

Clint stopped in his tracks. He knew that voice. He first heard it in a crowded bar on a Monday night, tinged with laughter. He remembered what it sounded like when she was yelling at Jane about Pop-Tarts, at Coulson about her iPod, at him because he left the lid off the toothpaste again. (She never bothered to make her bed and had clothes draped over everything, but _that_ sent her over the edge.) He knew what it sounded like just before she fell sleep. He listened to it echo off the shower walls in her miniscule bathroom as he moved deep inside her. He’d fallen asleep to the memory of what that voice sounded like when he buried his face between her thighs, sucking and licking as she grasped his head, chanting his name. “Try not to get dead, OK?” Those were the last words that voice said to him, words he repeated to himself when he needed the reminder.

“You alright there, Legolas?”

Clint shoved past Tony. It was her. He didn’t know why she was there, how she got there, but he didn’t care. “Darcy?"

She looked up. The silver spoon she was using to dish out servings of Mexican rice dropping to the table with a clank as her lips curved in that smile he knew was his. “Secret Agent Man!”

She rushed towards him, not noticing the looks everyone was giving them as he met her halfway. His hands cradled her face as he kissed her. She tasted the same, thank fucking Christ! He hoisted her up, groaning as she wrapped her legs around his waist, squeezing as tight as she could. Her arms went around his neck, practically choking him, but he didn’t care. It was Darcy. She was there.

He was home.

**Author's Note:**

> There needs to be more Clint and Darcy stories.


End file.
